“But,” gasped the dumbfounded Caine, “I don’t understand.” “Caine,” protested Conover, gently, “if all the things you don’t understand about finance was to be placed end to end--like they say in the Sunday ‘features’ of your paper,--they’d reach from here to Blacarda’s chances of swingin’ the Independent Steeloid Company. An’ that’s a long sight farther than twice around the world. What I’m gettin’ at is this: I went to work on the quiet an’ formed that Independent Combine. Then I gave it to myself as a present. It is now part of my U. S. Steeloid Company. Or will be as soon as I can strangle the Legislature kick that Blacarda’s sure to put up.” “I see now,” said Caine, slipping back into his armor of habitual calm, “and I take off my hat to you. Conover, you missed your calling when you failed to go into the safe breaking profession.” “There’s more money in business,” replied Conover simply. “But now maybe you won’t lay awake nights worryin’ over your Steeloid stock. If it was worth 170 2-5 this morning it’ll be quoted at 250 before the month is out.” “I don’t wonder you aren’t afraid of this afternoon’s ordeal,” observed Caine, “But Blacarda is on the Board of Governors.” “So are you, for that matter,” said Conover, “and I guess the vote of the man who’s made rich by Steeloid will pair off with the vote of the man who’s broke by it.” “I hope,” corrected Caine, “you don’t think it’s because of my Steeloid holdings that I’m backing you in this. I do it because it amuses me to see the gyrations of the under dog. A sporting instinct, I suppose.” “If you’re pickin’ _me_ for the under dog,”--began Conover, but broke off to stare in disgust at the other’s upraised hand. Caine was lifting his cigarette to his lips. Conover watched the lazily graceful gesture with more than his wonted contempt. “Say, Caine,” he interrupted, “why in thunder do you make your nails look like a pink skatin’ rink?” “If you mean, why do I have them manicured,” answered Caine, coolly, “it is absolutely none of your business.” “Now I s’pose that’s what you’d call a snub,” ruminated Conover, “But it don’t answer the question. Pink nails all shined up like that may look first rate on a girl. But for a man thirty years old--with a mustache--Say, _why_ do you do it?” “Why do you wear a necktie?” countered Caine, “I admit it is a surpassingly ugly one. But why wear one at all? It doesn’t keep you warm. It has no use.” “Clo’es don’t make a man,” stammered Conover, rather discomfited at the riposte, “But there’s no use creatin’ a disturbance by goin’ round without ’em. As for my necktie, it shows I ain’t a day laborer for one thing.” “Well-groomed hands are just as certain a sign manual of another sort,” finished Caine. “I don’t quite get your meanin’. If--”